I was on Rajdhani Express, fixated on a book called An Artist of the Floating World, not aware that dinner had already been served, that a co-passenger was trying to attract my attention.
“I’m a weird art-enthusiast”, said she, perusing the book. “I couldn’t have survived the world’s disdain without this author’s immersive narrative.”
“Critics call his narrator ‘unreliable’.”
“Strangely, he’s to me what Scout’s to Calpurnia. Uniquely reliable!”
“His eighth novel is due out soon.”
“Yes, where his muse, a mannequin, ponders on ‘human bondage’”…
Other passengers were already tucked up in bed. We’re still under the author’s spell.
“I’m a weird art-enthusiast”, said she, perusing the book. “I couldn’t have survived the world’s disdain without this author’s immersive narrative.”
“Critics call his narrator ‘unreliable’.”
“Strangely, he’s to me what Scout’s to Calpurnia. Uniquely reliable!”
“His eighth novel is due out soon.”
“Yes, where his muse, a mannequin, ponders on ‘human bondage’”…
Other passengers were already tucked up in bed. We’re still under the author’s spell.
